Troubled Sleep, Locked Windows
by Fallen Leafs
Summary: "I feel it is my duty as his confident and an artist to document the worst night of his life." Stan discovers Kyle's darkest secret in the form of one of Kenny's sketchbooks. Style, heavy stuff, you've been warned.


_Just... Don't ask. Read and be disappointed._

**Troubled Sleep, Locked Windows**

Kenny is a focus-point artist. He only colors one thing in his sketches, usually picking either the eyes or something insignificant. Stan, personally, from what little he'd seen of the blond's work, personally thought that it was a beautiful way to enhance the raw emotion he was so wonderful at instilling in his work. Everything looked so real, so true-to-form. Eric had once commented that he could draw a ten foot purple-polka-dot weasel in a top-hat and monocle and convince someone it was a photograph.

Stan loved Kenny's work, though he saw very, very little of it. Which is why, when he saw one of the blond's many sketchbooks lying around, he couldn't resist picking it up and slipping it into his backpack. He instantly felt guilty, especially when Kenny re-entered his bedroom with a broad grin, and a lewd comment about their favorite Jew. Yes. Stan really is so horrid a friend that, while coming to the charismatic immortal for love advice concerning his best friend, he stole a sketchbook.

Ah, well. It'd make it's way back to him.

OoO

Much later, Stan collapsed on his bed with an exhausted sigh, Kenny's concerned words echoing in the back of his head. _"Talk to him, Stan the Man. Make sure you _talk _to him, don't just... Jump him, okay? No matter how much it seems like a fucking brilliant idea."_

Kenny had refused to elaborate, stating that if he didn't know, he had no right to ask. Whatever. Probably just Kyle's nervousness about, well, people.

With a excited grin, though, he perked up at remembering that he had some of _Kenny fucking McCormick's_ work. Nobody saw Kenny's work unless it's for school, an accident, or a present.

He pulled it out of his backpack, glancing at the cover. It was plain, and stated on it in blue script. Stan shrugged and flipped it open to the first page, a little unnerved at what greeted him.

Dominating the page were bright green eyes framed by an all-too-familiar, black and white face. But unlike the drawing on the wall of all four of them from when they were twelve, in which Kyle was laughing and happy, he smiled sadly, determinedly from the page, melancholy feelings radiating from the carefully shaded emerald irises he knew all too well. Underneath the drawing was a haunting message in Kenny's beautiful, perfect handwriting.

_Kyle Broflovski is one of the best friends I've ever been graced with. He shines with perfection beyond my worthiness, and I'll forever envy his glowing purity. I feel it is my duty as his confident and an artist to document the worst night of his life. This is his story of the night he became part of a frightening statistic._

Stan shuddered. Right in the middle of the paragraph, the ink was smeared with what he recognized had to be a tear.

He considered closing the sketchbook. But... He was Kyle's Super-Best Friend! He should already know this story, but it's blindingly obvious he doesn't.

The following images would be burned into his memory for eternity.

Bright green eyes stared from the darkness of a dirty window plane, the only color in the drawing. A hand, one Stan recognized from the scar across the back of his palm to belong to the artist, reached out, presumably to open the window. The title, in loopy handwriting in the top right hand corner, read _"Kyle?"_

The next was of the same redhead staring at his sneaker-clad feet with a pink blush across his cheeks. Stan had never even thought of focus-pointing a blush, and stared hard at it for several moments. His eyes seemed to be filled with tears, and everything from his slumped shoulders to his defeated features to his heartbroken eyes screamed of hurt and confusion and shame. The title was_ He Doesn't Speak_.

The next page was filled with a series of sketches, none of them inked or focus-pointed. They demonstrated that Kyle was taking his clothes off, kicking his socks and shoes off, pulling his shirt off. They almost looked incomplete.

Stan noticed the title first this time. _Tell-Tale Bruises_. Kyle was standing in his boxers, hanging low on his hips. His gaze was firmly fixed on the ground. Blue, purple and black bruises bloomed all across his ivory skin. They were... Shaped like hands. Not fists. Hands. On his hips, his wrists, one half-visible on his inner thigh, his upper arms. A long, delicate cut dripped crimson blood and more of it smeared over his legs.

Refusing to accept what he was seeing as non-fiction, he flipped to the next page, _Help Me_. The blood was gone from his body and his middle was bandaged. He looked Kenny in the eye, bright green irises colored again, and tears streamed down his face.

The next page was, judging by the blurry edges, a memory. Terrifying images greeted him, of a shadow shaped like a man creeping in through the window into a perfect replica of Kyle's bedroom, where the teen himself could be seen sleeping peacefully, his bright red curls the focus-point. _Predator, _the title read.

The next couple pages saw the blankets ripped off the bed, Kyle panicking underneath the somehow vague shadow, Kyle's shirt ripped off, his wrists pinned above his head, shameless tears tracking down his face. He looked so helpless...

The next page was 'reality' again, of Kyle with his face hidden in his knees. Stan could almost imagine him trembling. The focus point was the words that were obviously his, in bloody red off to the side. _He hurt me, Ken. Told me I was worthless, threatened Ike and mom if I screamed, violated me. One in every ten women. One in every thirty-three men. I'm _part_ of that statistic, now, Kenny..._

There was only one drawing left. It was of Kyle, and completely colored in. He looked small, maybe a little broken. He was curled up under a blanket on Kenny's bed, obviously in the throes of troubled sleep. Tears still shone on his cheeks. The title read, _Troubled Sleep, Locked Windows._

The last page of the sketchbook was what finally made Stan break down into heartbroken tears.

_"Don't tell anyone, Kenny. Especially Stan." -Kyle_

_I almost said it out loud. Stan should have been the one you went to, Kyle. He needs to know. He'll still love you. Maybe, by documenting this, I can give him the chance to help you. I'll leave it out. Maybe he'll steal it? Glance through it? Then I won't have told him. He needs to know, Kyle._

_Stan, on the off chance you do read this... Go fucking talk to him. -Kenny_

_Documentation of the night of October 18th, 2010. Completed on September 22nd._

It all made sense. Why Kyle withdrew from everyone three months ago, why he refused to look Stan in the eye, why he shied away from all contact expect for Kenny's, why he was so jumpy. Why he was always tucked under the immortal's arm. Why he insisted Stan lock his windows when he slept over. Why he became so sensitive, why he slipped back into depression.

He was fucking raped.

Damn it. Fucking South Park.

OoO

_Not sure how I feel about this. I almost don't want to post it, but why not? It came with one of my friends drawing a portrait of me; She's a focus-point artist and wanted to color in my eyes, but refused to accept that they change color. I was thinking about Kyle, so I mumbled, "Make them green." and eventually, wondered what would happen if Kyle found a notebook belonging to Kenny filled with focus-point art of him and his eyes, then I thought, "What if Stan found it?" and out of no-where I remembered a fanfiction in which somebody crawled through the windows and raped Stan, and I was all, sadface. AND THIS WAS BORN! Will eventually be multi-chap._


End file.
